July 04, 2006

Let me Count the Ways

I would like you to know about all the ways that I am sensitive. You know, those Anne Geddes pictures with the babies in a watermelon, or those posters with a kitten sleeping beside a great big dog – they just get to me, right here (*fist against heart*).

But all sarcasm aside (I really wish tone would come across better in text, but what can I do? I hope you don’t think I’m sincere all the time because that would be a big mistake) I’m not big on the cutesy stuff. What I do want to tell you about are all my other sensitivities that make me the soft, gentle person that I am.

Number 1: Sensitive teeth. All you people who bite right into ice cream, I hate you. It causes me pain just to see you do it. My brothers love doing that in my face and tell me I just have to eat through the pain. Sensodyne-F doesn’t work, none of the other sensitive toothpastes work, no one believes me. Why would I lie about this?

Number B: Sensitive skin. I burn like a piglet in Arizona. “Oh, but don’t you tan?” No. Not unless I turn bright red first. I’m pasty white, in fact I’m so pale that my skin is see-through. People always tell me I have pen on my chin, but its just a vein that you can see. If you’re ever wondering why its so dangerous to cut your wrists, I’ll just show you mine.

Number trois: Light sensitivity. My eyes are blue and don’t shield themselves from much. I’ll walk outside on a cloudy day and flinch in pain as my pupils crunch up into little tiny pinpoint dots. I try to take my sunglasses everywhere, seems like the sensible thing to do. When I walk down Bloor Street at night there’s this one store that has a really bright display case which kills my eyes, so I usually walk past it with my eyes closed.

Number 4: Sound sensitivity. Sometimes my ears just go sensitive and I have to get the radio turned way down. But what’s worse are the sounds I can never stand. You know that sound when people file their nails? Or scratching ice off a window? I’m cringing just thinking about it, I have no idea why.

Now that you think I’m a total wuss, at the end of a very mediocre post I am contented that you now know more random facts about me. Random facts are what life’s all about, if you haven’t discovered that yet, well, maybe you’ve found what life is actually all about.

1 comment:

Dinah said...

So, I forgot to tell you. Just after I had read this post (or probably the day after, I dunno, it was Friday, though) I called my mom and she said, "Oh, I found this Anne Geddes journal in your room." "Really? What's it doing there?" "Can I have it?" "Absolutely. Happy Birthday."

I almost laughed out loud. I probably did.